


All Beautiful Things

by MasterFinland



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Babies, Children, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Fluff, Human Names Used, Mentions of War, Mostly Fluff, Pregnancy, Toddlers, goddamn they love each other, not really any plot i just wanted to write about usuk and babies, nothing graphic tho dont worry, some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 21:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19709674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterFinland/pseuds/MasterFinland
Summary: He serves egg whites to his daughter next, who, for some reason, has been refusing to eat anything yellow the last few weeks. Alfred told Alice he would talk to Amelia about it, because it’s very weird, but he hasn’t gotten around it yet. He cracks six more eggs, complete with the yolk, into the skillet to start on his and Tobias’s meals. He scrambles the eggs together until they’re yellow and bubbling, then turns his attention back to his daughter, who is sitting and waiting patiently for condiments.





	All Beautiful Things

**Author's Note:**

> we really be back on our hetalia bullshit, huh

Alice wakes suddenly to loud, shrill ringing that echoes off the walls. She sits up slowly, blearily, mindful of her heavy, swollen belly, and reaches over with her left hand to shove at her husband, who is sleeping face down and snoring noisily. He only grumbles and furrows his brow, snuggling deeper into his drool-soaked pillow, so Alice shakes him harder.

“Alfred… Alfred, sweetheart, the door,” she grumbles, trying with all her might to blink sleep from her eyes. Even though she’s only been sitting up for a moment, her right arm is already starting to ache, most of her weight balanced on it. She’s exhausted from chasing their other children around all day, and judging by the way her eyes are stinging, she’s only been asleep for an hour or so. It’s still pitch black outside, and the breeze from the open window is ruffling the curtains and making them billow out into the room. 

“Alfred, please, love, I’m so bloody tired.” She feels a sob building in her chest, but works her hardest to keep it down. There’s no need to get upset, because all she has to do is get her husband up and then she won’t have to deal with this anymore.

“Babe, c’mon…” Alfred lifts his head, groggy, hair at wild angles. His voice is thick, and any other time the husky sound would send shivers down Alice’s spine, but right now all she wants to do is go back to bed. “It’s, like,” he brings a bare arm out from under his massive pillow to press the home button on his phone, then drops his head back down with a pitiful whine. “It’s two-thirty-four in the morning, honey, do you really need whatever you’re cravin’ that bad-”

“Alfred, for fuck’s sake, someone’s at the door,” Alice groans, flicking him between his shoulderblades. “If I have to get out of this bed right now I seriously think I’m going to have a breakdown.” Her voice cracks in the middle of her sentence, and before she can stop it, she’s crying, hiccuping and blubbering incoherently. 

“Why the hell is _anybody_ at the door at two-thirty in the fucking morning?” Alfred growls, angrily snatching his glasses from the bedside table. He sighs heavily, turning his attention to his wife, who is getting increasingly more upset the longer he sits there, blind, slumped over and not even bothering to get a shirt. The doorbell rings again, and Alfred winces at the way Alice’s sounds get more frantic. 

“Alfred-”

“Calm down, baby, go on back to sleep.” He yawns and sits up properly, scrubbing a hand over his eyes before putting his glasses on. Alice nods, sniffling, and tries to get herself under control. “You need me to help you lie back down, sweetheart, or can you handle it?”

“I’ve got it,” she shifts, breath hitching every few seconds with the remnants of sobs. Her hips hurt, but she’s barely awake at this point, so she doesn’t really want to deal with it. She knows she’s going to regret it tomorrow if she does nothing, though, so once she’s almost in place she speaks: “I n-need another pillow,” she hisses as she rolls onto her right side, sliding down into the most comfortable position she can manage.

“Is it your hips again?” The doorbell rings a third time, and Alfred snarls. “I’m coming! Fuck. Here, babe.” He passes Alice his pillow and stands, picking his gray t-shirt from the floor and tugging it on as Alice works the pillow underneath herself and then another between her knees. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Alfred stomps down to the first floor of the house, grumbling to himself, because _who the fuck shows up at somebody’s house at this time of night,_ and _why the fuck are they here_ , and _it better be incredibly fucking important because both he and his wife just went to bed and she’s thirty-five weeks pregnant and-_

He rips the sticky front door open with an uncharacteristic scowl, eyes narrowed into slits, to find one of Alice’s brothers. He isn’t positive which one, because he isn’t good with faces and names and he’s only met this one a few times, but he’s pretty sure that it’s Ireland. 

The redheaded man in front of him - whose name he cannot, for the life of him, remember right now - is very clearly sloshed off his ass, and Alfred _really_ doesn’t want to let him in, but he knows that if he doesn’t the bastard is just going to keep ringing that annoying bell until they eventually cave and actually let him into the house. He smells like cheap beer and vomit, some of which Alfred is pretty sure is caked in his red-brown beard, and the scent truthfully makes him a little nauseous. Alfred can handle gore - he’s a nation and he’s been in multiple wars, so of course he can handle some blood and guts - but vomit is a whole ‘nother ball game.

“Dude, it’s, like, fucking after three in the morning. I have kids.” He moves out of the way, and the older man stumbles his way in with an irritated grunt and a dismissive wave of a freckled hand, as if he has any right to be upset about this situation.

“Took you lahng enooehgh,” he slurs, accent so thick Alfred genuinely can’t understand a word he’s saying. “I've been waitin ooeht dere fahr a foehckin year.” Alfred rolls his eyes, slamming the door shut not because he’s angry but because he has to. The door of this house has been sticking ever since Alfred was a child, and Alice, for some reason, has never bought a new door that actually fits in the archway. This door is almost five-hundred years old, though, and the wood is starting to rot at the bottom, so Alfred doesn’t think it’s going to be very long before he’s installing a new, more modern and specially crafted door to replace it. 

Alice’s-brother-that-he-thinks-is-Ireland flops onto the couch, and by the time Alfred reaches him, the puke-covered drunkard is knocked out, face down, snoring and drooling all over their nice cushions. Alfred wrinkles his nose, both at the sight and the realization that Alice is going to lose her mind when she wakes up. 

They’re going to have to get the couch steam cleaned tomorrow, apparently. He wasn’t planning on getting that done for a least a few more weeks, but it doesn’t really look like he’s going to have much say in the matter.

Alfred heaves a sigh.

He runs a hand across his face and shuffles back upstairs, not in the mood to deal with the drunk motherfucker sprawled on his couch. He’ll likely be sober by the time the kids get up, but he’ll probably have an absolutely horrible headache. Alfred hopes they wake him up by jumping on him and screaming; it’s what he deserves after barging in at this time of night and making him get up. 

Alfred holds the banister tightly as he takes the stairs, fingers trembling, pace slow as sleep begins creeping up on him once again. He barely makes it to the bathroom for a quick piss before he’s passing back out again, flat on his belly beside his wife. Maybe they’ll get lucky and the kids will sleep later than seven, and maybe they won’t wake Alice up first. 

* * *

The sun is high in the sky when Alfred eventually wakes up. He checks his phone in a mild panic to find that it’s only about eight-thirty, and not any later. He’s glad he hasn’t slept the day away; the last time that happened, Alice made him get up early for two weeks with the kids. He’s never been good at waking up before the sun, and just the thought makes him shudder with disgust. 

Alice’s spot in bed is empty and made up neatly. Emily isn’t curled up against him, so Alfred assumes she isn’t up yet. The boys, however, must be, if Alice isn’t still asleep, so he sits up and rolls his shoulders back, moaning when they pop pleasantly. He rubs his face, noting that he probably needs to shave soon, and puts his glasses on, blinking the world into view.

There’s a loud crash, probably plates, and a scream that bleeds into furious yelling from downstairs, and Alfred’s heart quite literally stops in his chest for a moment before he remembers that one of Alice’s brothers is hungover on their couch. Whichever brother it is - Ireland or Scotland or Wales, he doesn’t know - is definitely getting chewed out, and Alfred grins, because it’s exactly what the asshole deserves for showing up at two-thirty in the morning on a Saturday. He thinks Avery might be yelling, too, but it could be Tobias. The whole interaction is faint, so he can’t make anything distinct out, but he’s excited to get down there and witness the action.

He pees and shoves his slippers on his feet. He has to try almost embarrassingly hard not to run down the stairs and into the den - because he’s a father, dammit, he doesn’t need to sprint down the stairs - where his wife is flipping out, to watch the drama unfold. 

He manages to get there quickly, but not so quickly that Alice will realize he rushed down the stairs and almost fell on his way in. Alice is red-faced, angrier than Alfred has seen her in a while. It definitely can’t be good for her or the baby, but Alfred knows better than to mention that. She’s yelling something about irresponsibility and how Patrick - ah, that’s right, this one _is_ Ireland - is way too old to be acting like this, because he’s over a thousand years old, for fuck’s sake, and that this entire situation is unbelievable. Alfred knows that her lecture has gotten substancially more upset than it had been when she slips into what Alfred _thinks_ is Gaelic, because it sounds a lot like the language she uses to nag Scotland when he does dumb shit like this or acts like a barbarian during official meetings. 

Alfred wants to laugh, but he knows that it’ll only make the situation that much worse for everybody involved and get him yelled at, too, so he scoops a sniveling, five-year-old Avery up into his arms and takes him into the kitchen, where Amelia and Tobias are eating cereal straight from the box because they can. He grins.

“Are y’all good with cereal or do you want me to make you somethin’ else?” He shifts Avery into a proper, more comfortable position on his hip. The toddler sniffles pitifully and buries his face in his blanket, mumbling out that he wants honey cereal but with bananas ‘like Mummy makes it’. Alfred pats his back and presses a kiss to his hair.

“Eggs!” Tobias shrieks, arm shoved completely inside the box of Lucky Charms, and probably stuck there. Amelia nods excitedly in agreement and tosses the box of honey-nut Cheerios onto the floor, spilling it all over the tiles. Alfred snorts.

“I can do eggs. Pick those up, baby girl.” He places Avery down at his kitchen chair, his daughter hopping from her seat to clean up her mess. “Tobias, bud, please sit down. You’re gonna fall and hit your head and your mom’s gonna be mad at me again.” Tobias sits obediently on his butt, beaming up at his father. “Thanks, little dude.”

Alfred gets to work on breakfast, three of his four children chatting amongst themselves at the table. It’s quiet, and it’s nice, and Alfred is easily able to tune out Alice and Patrick’s shouting match two rooms over. He’s able to get Avery’s cereal - dry and without milk because Avery likes it crunchy - ready while he waits for the first set of eggs to cook, and sits it in front of him. He ruffles his hair, returning the adoring smile his toddler gives him with his own toothy grin.

He serves egg whites to his daughter next, who, for some reason, has been refusing to eat anything yellow the last few weeks. Alfred told Alice he would talk to Amelia about it, because it’s very weird, but he hasn’t gotten around it yet. He cracks six more eggs, complete with the yolk, into the skillet to start on his and Tobias’s meals. He scrambles the eggs together until they’re yellow and bubbling, then turns his attention back to his daughter, who is sitting and waiting patiently for condiments.

“Ketchup or syrup today, Rosie?” 

“Ketchup!” She squeals, slapping the table as she stands up quickly in her chair, big blue eyes sparkling. Alice says she has his eyes.

“Yes ma’am!” Alfred grins, snagging the nearly-empty bottle from the inside door of the fridge. He flips it dramatically for the kids and shakes it over the sink to mix it up. He drops it on the table for her and presses a kiss to the top of her head, wild, unbrushed curls tickling his nose. 

He finishes Tobias’s eggs and spoons them into a bowl, just the way he likes, and drizzles syrup on them because Tobias will not eat things with pepper if he can see it. Alfred spices the remaining eggs with salt, pepper, and curry powder - something Alice introduced him to one weird night during her first pregnancy - for himself and sits beside his daughter to eat. 

It’s incredibly peaceful for the first few minutes until Alfred hears the front door slam shut - he wasn't aware the front door could still _be_ slammed - followed by angry, noverbal screeching from his wife. He’s only a few bites into his breakfast, and he’s so fucking hungry, but Alice is stomping into the kitchen before he can take another. 

He lifts his spoon to his mouth, watching her silently as she opens cabinets and closes them with force almost immediately after, sort of looking for something but mainly just antsy with adrenaline that’s making her shake. She’s huffing and puffing and mumbling to herself in something that isn’t English, and Alfred knows he needs to calm her down before she passes out, but he really doesn’t want to open his mouth, so he continues shoveling food into it until his plate is empty and he can’t avoid the situation anymore. 

“Alice,” he starts, voice soft, cautious. He silently shoos the kids from the room with a wave of his hand. They’re all pretty used to their mother’s pregnancy hormones by now, so they simply grab their plates without complaint and shuffle to the living room. They don’t mind when their mother gets upset like this, not really, because it usually means extra dessert after dinner as an apology and being allowed to finish eating whatever meal got interrupted in front of the tv. “Alice, baby-”

Alice, suddenly and just as he begins to speak again, punches through the drywall of the kitchen with a furious yell. It makes Alfred freeze, because he’s never seen her do that before, but his feet are moving before his brain can process anything the second she starts sobbing, letting out loud, heaving wails that leave her gasping and choking. 

“Shit!” He helps her slide down to the floor and takes her very bruised hand into his own, cursing to himself. “Fuck, babe, why the hell did you _do_ that?!” He scowls and turns her hand over in his own, applying pressure to various spots to check for any obvious breaks. 

“I-”

“Flex your fingers.” He helps her mostly straighten trembling, nearly purple fingers, careful because she probably seriously broke something, and just because they’re nations and this injury will heal quickly doesn’t mean that broken bones aren’t incredibly painful. “Goddammit, Alice, you busted your fucking knuckles open,” he hisses, feeling a lot older all of a sudden. He pulls her up with care and flips the sink faucet on. “I’m gonna go get the wraps from the first aid kit. Stay here and run your hand under the water,” he commands, brows furrowed.

Alfred jogs to the bathroom and finds the kit easily. He grabs the wraps and some ointment to help with pain and swelling and then heads back to the kitchen, where Alice has visibly calmed down and is scrubbing soap over her bleeding hand. Her belly is pressed into the counter, and she seems kind of checked out, but Alfred is just glad she’s not crying anymore. 

“I’m back, baby. How’s your hand? Think you broke anything?” Alfred sits himself at the table, and looks up when Alice moves to sit beside him. She’s holding her wrist and flexing her fingers, her knuckles a very nasty shade of blue now that the blood has been mostly washed away. 

“No, I don’t think anything is broken,” she makes a fist and winces. “I lied, I think I broke my ring finger.” Alfred nods and takes her hand to expertly bind her ring and middle fingers together.

“How’s that?”

“It’s fine, love,” she mumbles, allowing him to wrap her knuckles up tightly after massaging ointment into the cuts. She rests her hand on her bump when he’s finished and slips her eyes shut.

“What did he want?” Alfred places his own hand on her belly, smiling sweetly at the little taps against his palm.

“It’s not… It’s just the same shit as it always is, Alfred,” she sighs, cracking one pretty green eye open. She looks tired. “But I’d really rather not talk about it, to be completely honest.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” Alfred gives her a sympathetic smile, anger bubbling in his chest. He hates the way Alice’s brothers treat her. But now isn’t the time to get into this, because his wife needs him for comfort. She doesn’t need him to get angry too. “Want some breakfast?”

“Mm… Would you make me some eggs, please?” Alice’s voice is hoarse and quiet, and Alfred’s shoulders relax, relieved that she feels well enough to eat this soon after a fight. “With pickles and curry powder, if you don’t mind.” 

“Sure thing, babe,” Alfred grins and hops up, catching Alice’s grateful smile from the corner of his eye.

* * *

Alfred pats his sobbing daughter’s back, the little one wailing against his shoulder. He frowns down at his son who stares up at him guiltily, holding the three-year-old’s favorite toy in two pieces, some of the stuffing at his feet. Emily blubbers pitifully into his neck, hiccuping and whining as she clutches his shirt with tiny, fat fists. She’s not hurt, thankfully, but she is incredibly upset.

“What happened, Tobi?” Alfred sighs, beginning to gently bounce in place in an effort to soothe his daughter. He’s suddenly ridiculously tired, and feels a hundred years older. He knows that regardless of whatever happened, Tobias definitely didn’t do it to be mean, and probably hadn’t done it intentionally, but he still needs to figure out how to fix the problem and prevent it from happening again.

“I di’n’t mean to…” Tobias’s blue-painted toes curl anxiously into the carpet. He twists the detached leg of the slightly-less-stuffed purple unicorn in his hands, lower lip jutting out.

“I know, buddy. You aren’t in trouble.” Alfred smiles down at him in reassurance, and the toddler looks up at him hopefully, unshed tears in his eyes.

“I tried’a help Emmy get on’a couch, bu’ she wasn’ list’nin, an’ kep’ fightin’, an’ I tore Mister Uni by as’ident… ‘M sorry, Daddy, I di’n’t mean to, I promise…” Tobias prattles and trails off, speaking almost faster than Alfred can keep up with.

Emily has calmed down significantly throughout Tobias’s practically unintelligible explanation, the big, heavy sobs having exhausted her. She’s almost limp against Alfred’s chest, the body of her toy - sans the front right leg - held tightly in her arms. Her eyelids are drooping, and Alfred takes a fraction of a second to check his watch.

_Ah, it’s naptime._

Because he’s a twin, Tobias has developed a bit more slowly than most children, and at five, still doesn’t quite have proper verbal skills for his age. Avery developed speech much faster than his brother had, but Tobias can move quicker and more fluidly than him. Tobias also has a bit of a lisp, so it takes him a little longer to get words adequately formed and out of his mouth in a way that’s understandable. 

But Alfred is nothing if not remarkably patient when it comes to things like this - he has four kids and another on the way, so he learned pretty swiftly how to wait and listen when dealing with children. He knows how to shut up and be perfectly still for hours on end thanks to the horrors of war, but listening and waiting for children to formulate sentences is very different than waiting and listening for bullets and footsteps - and he doesn’t know how Alice had handled both Matthew and himself, almost totally by herself, when they were younger, wild as they were, and just the thought of taking care of a kid like himself, complete with the terrifying super strength of a future superpower and endless energy, makes him shudder. 

“It’s okay, kiddo. I’m not mad.” Alfred shifts his daughter and crouches down to ruffle his son’s thick, wheat-blonde hair. “I’ll fix it up, no problem,” he grins. “Did you remember to apologize?”

Tobias lights up, big blue eyes sparkling. “Uh-huh! I ‘pologized!”

“Good.” Alfred takes the torn-off leg of the unicorn and rises. “Can you go ask your mom to bring the sewing kit into the kitchen for me while I put Em down for a nap?”

“Yeah!” 

Alfred grins, fond and amused, as the younger of his twins takes off down the hall to get Alice from her study, where she’s likely pouring over paperwork and agonizing about whether or not they picked the right color for the nursery, as if she hasn’t had Alfred paint it three times already. 

He pats Emily’s back and heads for the stairs.

* * *

Alfred watches - stares at, really, he’s completely entranced - his wife as she rests against the undoubtedly uncomfortable hospital bed. Their new baby - a seven pound, eight ounce daughter they’ve named Agnes Jane - is nursing, making sweet little sounds as she eats. Her little eyes keep fluttering open and closed, still the deep blue they’ll be until her true eye color develops, as she tries desperately to avoid falling asleep, and her nose keeps wrinkling when it brushes against the skin of Alice’s breast. Her almost-red eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, one little hand clenched in a fist beside her face, instinctively kneading the fatty tissue to make obtaining her meal easier. Her other fist is curled around Alice’s ribcage, weakly and unknowingly pinching at the skin.

Alice brushes her trembling fingers over the baby’s freckled cheek, soft and warm to the touch. Alfred’s heart nearly stops in his chest; he’s witnessed the birth of all five of his children, but his heart never fails to fill to near-bursting with love, both for his wife and the baby on her bare chest.

He thinks she looks beautiful, even though her unwashed hair is pulled back in a ratty bun, messy atop her head, and her bangs still cling to her bare face with sweat. It’s an ugly appearance, complete with pale purple eyebags. She looks beyond tired and, in all honesty, pretty shitty, but to Alfred, she’s the most gorgeous woman on the planet. 

Alfred loves them, his perfect wife and his amazing children, more than anything in the world, and he knows that, without hesitation, he would go to the ends of the earth for them if they asked.

When Alice smiles at him, tired but content, Alfred can’t help but smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> I would always love stories and/or prompts about babies!! 
> 
> Thanks so much!!!!
> 
> [my Kirkland-Jones kids, in order:  
> Amelia Rose  
> Avery Christopher  
> Tobias Foster  
> Emily Elizabeth  
> Agnes Jane  
> Luka Elliot  
> Winfred Bailey]


End file.
